


Fever dreams and missed opportunities

by TooManyChoices



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Time, Hallucinations, I Made Myself Cry, Loads of Angst, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, References to Drugs, Season 3 compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-21
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-18 19:52:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3581823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooManyChoices/pseuds/TooManyChoices
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during Sherlock's time at the drug den in S3. Sherlock grieves what could have been, had he only chosen differently.</p><p>What would have happened if Sherlock had succumb to John's plea to 'Not be dead'?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fever dreams and missed opportunities

_Why are you here?_ The Heroin voice whispered.

 _It's for a case_ , I reply.

 _Really_. It's a judgement, not a question, and you can hear the derision in it's silky voice.

 _Why else would I be here?_ I challenge in a childish tone.

_You know why._

I refuse to answer. The truth is unpleasant to face. I just want to sink into dreams of the past.

 _You can change it._ The voice tempts, _Here, in your dream, you can make it the way you wanted it to be, the way it SHOULD have been._

It knows. It knows that's why I come, why I seek out the needle. Fiction has become sweeter than fact, and I seek it. I can't deny its siren's call.

@@@

"One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't.Be.Dead." John stands at my grave-stone. I can hear the shattering grief in his voice. The barely controlled tears.

I step out from behind the tree. "John." I say simply, the tears running freely down my face.

His head whips up, red eyes meeting mine and catching...holding....disbelieving. I nod and step toward him.

"I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry, John." Another step, matched this time by one of his own.

"Sherlock....?" My name is a whispered prayer on his lips. A question, a blessing, a hope.

"I couldn't...I can't leave you. I had to do it, but I can't leave you. Not like this" My words are garbled, tripping over themselves, but they're true.

He takes another step toward me and his legs fail him, his knees hit the grass, but I'm at his side before his hands can follow his knees to the ground. Instead, he collapses against my chest as I fall beside him, drawing him to me.

"I'd lost you." He sobs, "I lost you, and I went with you."

"I know." I mumble, "I know." I don't know, I didn't realise. I see so much, but I didn't see this. That he cared as much as I do. That my death would kill him too, and leave us both walking corpses. "I'm here...I'm sorry...I'm here."

"How? How are you here?" The question is more to the universe than to me. It's more disbelief than query, I see that much at least.

"It doesn't matter, all that matters is that I am. I'm here, John. I'm really here." I hold him as he shudders and cries, the anguish he's been containing so tightly since my funeral given leave to finally purge itself into the fabric of my coat.

I rock him and stroke his back, his hair, his face, mumbling nonsense as I watch the occasional visitor to graves around us, casting sympathetic glances toward the couple on the ground, clearly mourning a lost loved one. Little do they know the true meaning of these tears.

"Let's go home." I say gently, encouraging him to stand with me. There's little energy in his steps, and he leans heavily against me as we make our way to a cab. Long sleepless nights have robbed him of his endless strength and now that I'm here to share the burden, he's surrendered his stoic determination to pretend.

There's no words in the cab on the way home but I glance at him often, alert for signs of shock. More often than not, he's looking at me with the same eyes. Watchful, caring, wary. Fearful that this miracle soap-bubble will burst and we'll be ripped away from each other once more. I reach out a hand and it's wordlessly grasped and held in his own. It's better, and we share a hopeful smile that perhaps if we hold on tightly enough, we can hold the bubble together.

He unlocks the front door quietly and we creep up the stairs, unwilling to permit the possibility of our Landlady intruding on this precious time. By the time the door to 221B closes behind us, he's almost shaking on his feet. His dark, haunted eyes are glazed and exhaustion is obvious in every line of his face.

I shepherd him down the hallway to my room and seat him on the edge of my bed as his fingers automatically start to unbutton his shirt. He's barely awake now, and I watch him for a moment, wondering if he's actually seeing me anymore. I lift the edge of the sheet and he drops his jeans and underwear to the floor and climbs in without a word. There's a sigh, and I think I hear him mumble my name. His eyes are already closed and his breathing already relaxing into sleep. I allow myself a moment's indulgence and brush a lock of blonde-grey hair from his forehead before I leave the room.

@@@

"Sh'lock." His sleep drowsy voice murmurs my name as I lift the bedclothes.

"Go back to sleep, John." I whisper quietly, "You're fine." I slip into bed beside him, laying on my back, staring at the ceiling.

"S'all fine." He mumbles and turns on his side, his back to me. Then, feeling my body-heat, he shuffles backward, slotting his spine against my arm, and his arse against my hip.....It's perfect.

@@@

I wake several hours later. We haven't moved, still slotted together like pieces of a matched puzzle. The entire bed, my entire room smells of John and I lay back, overwhelmed at the thought of him in my space, my room, my bed. I've wanted this for so long, and now, to have him so close, is unbearable.

He's still soundly asleep and lift the arm not pressed along John's spine, gently touching myself. This is wrong, I know it is, even as I stroke myself I know that. But I can't resist it. With the smell of John in the room, it's too easy to let myself imagine it's him touching me, wanting me as much as I want him.

John tenses beside me and I know I'm caught. The rhythmic movement would be impossible to mistake for anything other than what it was. I still my hand and wait for him to move away, to leave my room but he surprises me again. His arm moves, pivots backward and I hold back a gasp as his gentle fingers smooth down my abdomen. They brush against the fine line of hair leading from my navel and then, as if following it like a trail of breadcrumbs they explore lower until he reaches my wrist and follows it to where I'm still grasping myself with my hand.

Silently, he encircles my fingers with his own. There's a catch in his breathing, matched by my own and he silently urges me to resume stroking. God, it's unimaginable, his fingers over mine, almost as if he's touching me himself. I'd never dared hope. It can't be comfortable for him like this, his arm bent at an unnatural angle, but as our hands move together, I'm too selfish to suggest he stop, even for a moment.

After a time, his hand moves away and I'm briefly bereft until I realise he's reaching further, grasping my hip furthest from him and pulling it upward. Is he suggesting....yes, he is. I let my own hand drop away and I turn on my side and spoon behind John and I smother a gasp as I feel my cock slot into the groove of his arse. I hear a moan from him at the sensation of my hot flesh against him. The alignment is perfect, the head nestled at the top of his crease, applying the most delicious pressure if I move so much as an inch, pressing it between his body and mine.

He nudges back against me, giving me permission to move and I thrust gently, not daring to believe that it's actually allowed. There's a wet sound and I realise that John has spat copiously in his own hand and, dear God, he's reached between us to rub his hand over my cock. I grit my teeth to stifle the undignified noise that demands release as the friction is suddenly lessened and he pushes back again.

I can't resist the urge to touch any longer and reach around John's waist, stilling just short of my destination, hoping he'll understand what I'm asking. He again takes the lead, tugging my hand to his own cock, hard and welcoming my touch. He arches against me as I touch him for the first time, a whimper breaking through the panted breathing.

For the first time, I begin to believe, truly believe that he may want this, that it isn't some sort of charity on his part. I stroke him once and he arches again, the desperate whimper is repeated. God, he does want this. Each time he moves, my cock slides against his cleft, and we settle into a natural rhythm as if we've done this a thousand times. I rock against him, pushing him forward into my fist, he pushes back, dragging me along his skin. It's the most perfect synchronicity I've ever experienced.

My orgasm is close and I pull my hand away from him to cover myself with it, suddenly unsure whether John would want me to come on his back, much as I want to. His keening cry at the loss of sensation is enough to finish me, biting my lip at the intensity and my effort to keep silent.

I feel John move to stroke himself urgently with his own hand and I'm lost. Without thought I push his away and put my own hand back on him, only then realising it's covered with my own release. He groans at the feel of me on him, slippery and slick. He thrusts against me, harder now, desperate to finish and suddenly I'm desperate to help him. He's curls in on himself, tension building, and I curl against him, now heedless of the traces of sticky wetness I'm no doubt smearing on his back.

"Sherlock....God, Sherlock." He's muttering my name. I can hear it hissed with each breath.

I lean close and suck a bruising kiss on his neck, "John..." I rumble in his ear and he unbows suddenly, thrusting hard through my fingers and cumming with a shout. I hold him against me and gasp at the glory of the tension that pulls at his body as he cums again over my hand and the sheets. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. The rigid stretch leaves his muscles as he slumps against me and folds to fit my frame. I'm planting tiny kisses against his shoulder as he begins to giggle through he ebbing adrenaline.

@@@

I wake sobbing against the filthy pillow on the discarded mattress of the flophouse.

 _Why do you take me there, over and over again?_ I ask the Heroin hallucinations

 _Where else do you have to go?_ It answers.


End file.
